CHAPTER XII. ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

Te Aroha News, Volume VII, Issue 407, 2 October 1889, Page 3

CHAPTER XII. ON ST. PARTRIDGE DAY.

A^ he descended the stnirs he encountered Nixon and a voiled lady ascending. He looked ab her keenly — she was tall and slender ; beyond that, through the heavy crape veil, he could make out nothing. 'Mysterious, certainly!' he thought. 'I wonder who she i&V He bowed as he passed her ; she benfc her head in return ; then he hastened to seek out Edith, and tell her an important visitor had ariived for Lady Helena, and that the excursion to Eastlake Abbey would be postponed. He was bub a poor dissembler, and the girl's blight brown eyes weie sharp. She smiled as she looked and listened. ' Did you know I could tell fortunes, Sir Victor? Hold out your hand and lot me tell you the past. You havo been upstaire with Lady Helena ; you have told her that Edith Darrell has consented to be your wife. You have asked her sanction to the union, and have beon naturally, indignantly, and peremptorily refused.' He smiled, but the conscious colour rose. ' I always suspected you of being an enchantress-- now 1 know it. Can you tell me the future as truthfully as the pa&t ?' •In this instance I think so. "You shall never marry a penniless nobody, sir." (And it is exactly Lady Helena's voice that speaks). "Your family is nob to be disgraced by a low marriage. This girl, who is but a sorb of upper servant hired and paid, in the family of these common rich American people, is no mate for a Catheron of Catheron. I refuse to listen to a word, sir— l in&ist upon this preposterous affair being given up." You expostulate — in vain. And"as constant dropping wears the most obstinate stone, &o ab last will her ladyship conquer. You will oome to me one day and &ay : "Look here, Miss Darroll, I'm awtully sorry, you know, but we've made a mistake— l've made a mistake. I return you your freedom — will you kindly give me back mine ? And Miss Dan ell will make Sir Victor Catheron her be&t eurbosy and retire into the outer darkness from whence she came." ' He laughed. Her imitation of his own alow, accontod manner of speaking was so perfect. Only for an instant ; then ho was grave, almost reproachful. 'And you know me no better than this !' he sai<l. " ' I tako back my words ; you are no seeress. I love my aunt very dearly, bub not all the aunts on earth could part mo fiom you. I would indeed be a dastard if a few words of objection would mako me resign the girl I love.' 'I don't know,' Miss Darrell answered coolly ; ' ib miftht be better for both of us. Oh, don't get angry, please— you know what I mean. lam a nobody, as your somebodies go on this side. My Grandfather Sbuarb was a pedlar once, I believe ; my Grandfather Darrell, a schoolmaster. Nob a very distinguished descent. My father by education and refinement ia a gentleman, bub he keeps a boarding-house. And I am Miss Stuart's paid companion and poor relation. Bo wire, Sir Victor, while there is time ; be warned before it is too late. I promise not to be angry — to even admire your common - sense. Lady Helena has been as a mother to yon ; ib isn't worth while offending her for me— l'm nob worth ib. There nre dozens of girls in England, high-born, high-bred, and twice as bundfcome as I am, who will love you and marry you to-morrow. Sir Victor Catheron, let us shake hands and part.' She held it out to him with a smile, supremely careless and uplifted. He caught ib passionately, hi 3 blue eyes afiie, and covered ib with kisses. « Not for ten thousand worlds ! O Edith, how lightly you talk of parting, of giving me up. Am I then so utterly indifferent to you ? No ; I will never resign you ; to call you wife is the one hope of my hfe. My darling, if you knew how I love you, how empty and worthless the whole world seems without you ! Bub one day you will, you mus t — one day you will be able no more to live without me than I without you. Don't talk liko this any more, Edibh ; if yon knew how it hurts me you would be more merciful, [am wire. Life can hold nothing half &o bibcer for me as the loss of you . ' She listened in a sorb of wonder at his impassioned earnestness, looking at him shyJy, wistfully, • .

• You love me like this ?' she eaid. •A hundred times. more than this. I would die for you, Edith. How empty and theatrical it sounds, but, Heaven knows, I would.' She passed her hand through his arm and clasped the other round it, her bright smile back. ♦ Don'b die,' she said, with that smile, and her own rare, lovely blush ; 4 do better — live for me. Ah, Sir "Victor, i don't think ib will be such a very hard thing to learn to—like you !' 4My darling ! And you will talk no more of parting— no more of giving you up ? You don't really wish it, Edith, do you ?' ' ♦ 4 Most certainly not. Would I havo accepted you, if I did? I'll never give you up while you care for me like this. If we erer part, the parting shall bo your doing, not mine.' , * My doing — mine ?' he laughed aloud in .his* incredulity and happiness. 'The days of miracles are over, belle, amie, but a bummer breeze could more easily uproot these oaks than that. And lest you should think yourself fetterless and tree, I will bind you at once.' He drew from his pocket a tiny morocco box. * See this ring, Edith ; it hus been worn by women of our house for the past two conturios — the betrothal ring of the Catherons. Let mo place it on your finger, nover to- be taken off until I biqd you with q golden circlet stronger btill.' Her dark eyes sparkled as she looked at it. Ib was a solitaire diamond- of wonderful size and brilliance, like a great drop of limpid water, sejb in dull; red gold. • ' There is some queer old tradition extant nbout it,' he said, 'to the effect that the bride of a Catheron who does nob wear ib will lead a most unhappy lite and die a mcfst unhappy death. So, my Nearest, you" see how incumbent upon you it is for your own sake to wear it religiously.' He laughed, bub she lifted to his, two deep, thoughtful, dark eyes. ' Did your mother wear it, Sir Victor ?' I He started, the smile died from his face, his colour faded. 'My mother !' ho answerod ; * no. 'My father married her secretly and hastily after six weeks' coUrt&hip, and of course never thought of the ring. '• Lead an unhappy life, die an unhappy death," ' ho said, repeating his own word's ; ' she did both, and to the best of my belief, she never wore it.' ' Anodd coincidence, atlcast,' said Edith, her oyes tixed on the diamond blazing in the sunshine on her hand. A piiceless diamond 1 on the hand of Edith Dan ell, the brown hand »thab two months ago had cwept, and dusted, and worked, unwillingly in the shabby old house at home. • Don'b let us talk about my mother, Sir Victor said ; ' there i« always something so terrible to me in the memory of her death. Your life will be veiy different from hers — my poor mother.' 'I hope so,' was the grave reply; 'and in my case there will be no jealous rival, will there? Sir Victor, do you know I should like to visit Cabhcron Royals. If we have had love-making enough for one day, suppose we walk over?' • 1 shall never hn\e love-making^enoujrh,' ho laughed. 4 I shall bore you awfully-< .sometimes, I have no doubt,; bub when the heart is full the lips, must speak. And as to walking — it is a long walk — do you think you can ?' 4As 1 am to become a naturalised Englishwoman, the sooner I take to English habits the better, I shall ab least make the attempt. 1 4 And we can drire back in time for dinner. I shall be delighted to show you the old place — your. future home, where we aro to spend . together so many happy years.' They sot off. Id was a delightful walk, that sunny day, across tielcjg, down fragrant green lanes, where the hedges in bloom made tho air odorous, and the birds sang in the arching branches overhead. A long, lovely walk over that quiet high-road, where threo-and-twenty years ago another Sir Victor Cabheron had ridden away for ever from ohe wife he loved. With the yellow splendour of the afternoon sunlight gilding ib, its tall trees waving, its grey turrets and towera piercing the amber air, its ivied walls, and tall stacks of chimneys, Cabheron Royals came in view at last. The fallow deer browsed undisturbed, gaudy peacocks strutted in the sun, a fown lifted ibs &hy wild eyes and fled away ab their approach. Over all, solemn Sabbath stillness. 1 Wolcome to Catheron Boval" — welcomo as ibs mistress, my bride, my love,' Sir Victor Catheron said. She lifted her eyes-r-they wore full of bears. How good he was — how tenderly he loved her, and what a happy, grateful girl she had reason to be ! They entered the house, admitted by a very old woman, who bobbed a curtsey and looked at them with curious eyes. Two or three old retainers took care of the place and showed it to strangers. Leaning on her lover's arm, Edith Darrell walked through scores of stately rooms, immense chill halls, picture ■ galleries, drawing-rooms and chambers. What a stupendous place it was bigger and uiore imposing by far than l'owyss Place, and over twice as old. She looked ab the polished suits of armour, ab babble-axes, antlers, pikes, halberds, until her eyes ached. She paced in awe and wonder down the vast porbrait-gallcry, where half a hundred dead and gone Catherons looked at her sombrely out of their heavy frames. And one day her picture — hers— would hang in solemn state hare. The women who looked at her from these wails lay stark and stiff- in the vaults beneath Chesholm Church, and sooner or later they would lay her stark and stiff with bhem, and put up a marble tablet recording her age and virtues. She shivered a little and drew a long breath of relief as they emerged into the bright outer day and fresh air once more. > j 'Ib'fl a wonderful place,' she said ;''a place to dream of — a place such as I have only met before in English books. Bub there is one room among all these rooms* which you have not shown me, and which 1 have a morbid craving to see. You will not be angry if I ask ?' 1 Angry with you ?' Sir Victor lifted his eyebrows in laughing surprise. 4 Speak, Edith, though it were half my kingdom.' » it ig — ' a pause — • to see the room where your mother— Ah !' as he shrank a little, 4 1 bee your pardon. I should not havo asked.' 4 Yes, yes, you should. You shall visit it at once. lam a coward about some things, I confess— this among others. Come.' They went. He took from a large bunch he carried the key of that long-locked room. He Hung it wide, and they stood together on the threshold. Ib was all dark, the blinds closed, the curtains drawn, dark and deserted, as it had been since that fatal night. Nothing had been changed, absolutely nothing. Theie stood bhe baby bassinet, there the little table on which tho knife had lain, there beneath the open window the chair in which Ehel, Lady Cabheron, had slept her last long sleep. A hush that seemed like the hush of de«th lay over all. Edith sbood silent and grave— nob speaking. Sho motioned him hastily to come away. He obeyed. Another moment, and they stood together under the blue bright sky.

•Oh !' Edith said, undor her breath, ' who did it ?' • Who indeed ? And yet Lady Helena knows.' His face and tone were sombre. How dare they let her lie in her unavenged grave? A Cntheron had done it beyond doubt, and to save the Catheron name and honour the murderer had been let go. • Lady Helena knows !' repeated Edith ; •it wan t-hab wicked brother and .sister, thqn ? How cruel — how cruel !' 'lib was not the sister — I believe that. ThijLt it must have been tho brother no doubt can exist.' • Is he living or dead ?' ' Living, I believe. By Heaven ! I hare half a mind yet to hunt him down, and hand him over to the hangman for the deed he has done !' 'An ancient name and fnmily honour are wortderful things on this side of the Atlantic, a couple ot million dollars on ours. They can save the murderer from the gallows. We won't t.ilk about i$ Sir Victor— it makes you unhappy I s«e ; only if ever I — if ever I,' laughing and blushing a little, ' come to be mistress of that big, romantic old 1 house, I shall wall that room up. It will always be a haunted chamber — a Bluebeard closet for me.' 'If ever you are mistress,' he repeated. • Edith, my dearest, when will you be ?' • Who knows ' Never, perhaps.' • Edith— again !' 4 Well, who can tell ? I may die — you may die — something: may hnppen. I can't think of myßolf as Lady Catheron.' • Edith, I command you ! Name the day.' • Now, my dear Sir Victor—' I Dear Victor, without the prefix ; let all formality end between us. You, are your own mistress, Tiny own master ; I am desperately in love — I want to be married. I will be married. There is nothing to wai for — 1 won't wait. Edith, shall it be — this is the last of May— shall ifc be the first week of July ?' ' No, sir ; it shall not, nor the first week of August. We don't do things in this desperate sor^t of hot haste.' • But why should we delay ? What is j there to delay for ? I shall have a brainfever if I am compelled to wait longer than August. Be reasonable, Edith ; don't let it )oe later than August.' "'Now, now, now, Sir Victor Catheron, August is not to be thought of. I shall not marry you forages to come — not until Lady Helena Powyss gives her full and free consent. ' • Lndy Helena shall give her full and free consent in a week ; she could not refuse me anything longer if sho tried. Little tyrant! if you oared for me one straw, you would not object like this.' ' Yes, I would. Nobody marries in this impetuous fashion. I won't hear of August. Besides, there is my engagement with Mrs Stuart. I have promised to talk French and German all through the Continent for them this summer.' \. • I will furnish Mrs Stuart a substitute with every European language at her fingerends. Seriously, Edith, you must consider that contract at an end — my promised wife can be no one's paid companion. Pardon me, but you must see this, Edith.' ' I 1 see it,' she answered gravely. • She had her ovrn reasons for not wishing to accompany the Stuart fumily now. And after all, why should she insist on postponing the marriage ? • You are relenting — 1 sec it in your face,' ho exclaimed imploringly. ' Edith ! Edith ! shall it be the first week of September?' She smiled and looked at him as she had done early this eventful morning, when she had said ' Yes! 1 ' As brain-fever threatens if I refuse, I suppose you must have your way. But talk of the wilfulness of women after this !' 4 Then it shall be the first of September —St. Partridge Day ?' 'It shall bo St. Partridge Day.'